When I Read Pablo Neruda
I dive into the page
and begin
to skim
through words
like uncooked rice, brown
granules roll around my thighs,
massaging me,
sticking between my toes.
Neruda’s grain
waxes and wanes,
pushing against
my trunk,
kernels swirling
along my shoulders,
the
tick
tick
tick
of particulates
fall
over my arms,
my chest.
And as I reach for the end,
I shake off the pieces,
finding them deep
between my thumb and nail,
specks hang on my scalp,
with the smallest pieces
left in my eyes,
but I always find more.